


Keep Your Distance Far Away From Me (Lest You Want be Eaten Alive)

by destruction



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Abandonment, Attempted/Intended Rape (Not Graphic), BAMF!Castiel, Biting, Blood Play, Bottom!Castiel (In Dean's Fantasies), Dark!Castiel, Dark!Dean, Drug-like State, Encouraged Self-Harm, Fight to Fuck, Graphic Self-Harm, Hurt!Castiel (In Dean's Fantasies), Intended Suicide, M/M, Manipulation, Mentions of Past Rape and Abuse, Obsession, Possession, Scratching, Suicidal Thoughts, Threatening, Top!Castiel, Vampires, Victorian, Violence, bottom!Dean, dark!fic, extreme dub-con, pain play, vampire!Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 17:56:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destruction/pseuds/destruction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what happens when you mix two dangerous forces.  Set Pre-Victorian, Dean has been the victim of some life-changing experiences and they've left more than a few scars.  Angry and set on revenge for what he's been through, he sets his sights on the blue-eyed stranger with every intention to hurt someone like he's been hurt.  Unfortunately, Dean hasn't any idea who - or what - he's up against and the tables are turned before he even realizes it's happening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Your Distance Far Away From Me (Lest You Want be Eaten Alive)

**Author's Note:**

> The summary is probably misleading (I swear I must be the worst at writing summaries), so I will warn you that if you're looking for 'the fic of whump!Castiel,' you won't find it here. Dean is pretty dark, but Castiel is a natural predator.
> 
> Additionally, this is extreme AU, which means the characters won't be in-character all of the time.
> 
> I would also like to quickly note that neither character gets anything they don't rightfully deserve.

On the back of his scalp, just below his hairline, there stands a lone bead of sweat threatening to drip between his vestments; the sun has lowered now, casting its last rays across the horizon. As it leaves, it takes its heat, though, unfortunately, it does not budge the humidity that hangs heavy in the air. It’s enough to choke on, he surmises, and his layers are uncomfortably tight where they lie against his heated flesh, his pulse still thrumming in the sun’s lasting impression and causing a surge of nausea that he’s doing well enough to ignore. Now, with his back pressed against a brick building, he stands in the shadows with his hat tipped lowly to hide his eyes from the one he’s watching - staring intently at the man across the way as though he’s not already memorized everything about him. As always, he keeps his distance, and as such, the object of his desires is but a blur in his aging sight - it doesn’t matter. He’s watch the other man pass by so many times by now that he could properly articulate, if asked, the bursts of colors in the other’s eyes or where the blemishes lie on the man’s cheeks.

It’s a game in his mind now, albeit a frustrating one; he travels into town each day at sunset in hopes of catching a glimpse of the one he wants. Though the odds are perpetually in his favor, it doesn’t keep the disappointment from bubbling into a simmer rage each time he realizes, yet again, he has wasted his time.

If he’s honest, and Dean Winchester is nothing but an honest man, his efforts at obtaining the man’s name, or even his profession, have been fruitless and Dean was forced to cease his research when those at the town hall began questioning his motives. The man’s homestead is lost to Dean; there is only so far he can follow the man out of town before his intentions become clear, and he’s stamped with some insulting term like ‘stalker’. Dean scoffs at that - Dean is no stalker - merely an admirer. He would be excused from his strange behavior, he believes, if anyone else ever paid attention to whom Dean is actually interested in. If they just looked at the extravagantly gorgeous stranger the way Dean did, they too would be watching, waiting, following. Then again, Dean is eternally grateful that no one else shares his undying attachment to the other man.

Blue Eyes belongs to him now.

Dean watches the man finish his work, whatever that may be, and turn to leave town by the same route as always: the back road. Casting his eyes around his surroundings, Dean curses the abnormally large crowd and bites his lip in frustration; he can’t possibly follow him in a mass that is sure to notice. He watches him for several moments before blowing a surreptitious kiss to other man’s back but he is so far out of Dean’s line of sight, but a blur now, that Dean doesn’t notice Blue Eyes slowing his footing and casting a sideways glance toward him momentarily before continuing on his path.

+++

The image Dean has constructed in his mind is blasphemous, at best, filled with dark fantasies he’s never revealed, let alone experienced, and though he realistically knows he’s setting himself up for disappointment, with his hand grasped firmly around his hardened cock, it no longer matters. He imagines that mop of black hair soaked with sweat as he pulls on it relentlessly, absorbing the pained sighs from the frail man beneath him as his teeth sink deeply into pale flesh, the bite hard enough just to break the flesh. Blunt nails scrape down his back and Blue Eyes arches into him, legs spreading to let Dean know, without a doubt, that he’s there for Dean’s pleasure and that’s exactly where he wants to be. Twisting his wrist on the upstroke, Dean’s breath catches and his mind conjures up visions of bloody lips and pink welts, bruises and bites, and pounding himself into a completely pliant body. He doesn’t realize his orgasm has hit him until he’s moaning loudly, his teeth sinking into his own lips to keep the volume low, and as he regains his energy, come cooling already on his heated flesh, he wishes it could have lasted longer.

Sighing, he rises from his bed and makes his way his small kitchen, propelled up by a dry mouth. His steps falter and he catches sight of morning sunlight where there should be none, causing him to stop and inspect his front door. The door in question is open, though only an inch at best, and he runs his finger along the frame, seeing, to his surprise, no signs of forced entry - the wood seems in perfect health. Furrowing his brow, Dean quickly looks around the foyer with wide eyes, but sees no one or nothing out of the sorts - everything seems to be where it should be. Swallowing the anxious lump in his throat, he pushes the door open, noting that the hinges are fine, and walks through the entryway, scoping the outer shell of his home. It isn’t until he walks around the opened door that he notices the only discrepancy: four long, and inexplicably deep, gouges in the wood mimicking claw marks.

Dean runs a hand over the marks, confirming the depth of the carvings scored deeply into the wood. He allows himself a moment to stare at the new artwork flanking his front door, his head tilted to the side as he stares at the deep scratches. He casts another glance around the vicinity, searching for any type of clue but finding none, before he lets out a small chuckle and narrows his eyes angrily, biting his lip until he tastes blood on his tongue. It seems he has an enemy, though their warning beacon is far from terrifying; the opened door is a tad strange, he’ll admit, considering said door was locked, but the world is filled with thieves and it wouldn’t be the first time one of them forgot to cover their tracks. Dean allows the blood to pool in his mouth before spitting into his hand, using his index finger to paint inside the large scratches, the crimson mixing with the wood to achieve, what he thinks is, an undesirable muddy orange hue. He stands back, admiring his responding warning beacon, before running his hand through his hair and walking back inside.

The marks on his front door escaped Dean’s mind at some point during the long day and as the sun began to set over the small town, he growled low in his throat as he accepted he wouldn’t be seeing Blue Eyes today. With his hat low, as always, he walked down the road on his way back home, distracted by his anger, until Ruby, an escort of whom his brother Sam is quite fond, roughly pulled him to the side, barely missing the punch Dean threw at the sudden intrusion. She waited until they were free of others before speaking, her voice a low whisper.

“What happened to your door?” There should’ve been a ‘Mr. Winchester’ somewhere in that sentence but her tone was harsh enough that Dean decided to let it go. He relaxed his shoulders slightly and ran his hands through his sweaty hair under his hat.

“I don’t know; they were there when I woke up,” Dean muttered, watching the moon begin its nightly work of restoring the calm chill the sun had stolen. Ruby’s eyes narrowed in scrutiny now.

“And you didn’t think it would be a good idea to wash it off?” Ruby countered and Dean furrowed his brows, trying desperately to figure out what exactly she was speaking of; the orange of his blood wasn’t very apparent, that he knew.

“I’m sorry?” Dean questioned and Ruby’s eyes widened before she pushed him in his initial direction, instructing him to go home – “At once” – she had said with more authority than her position warranted - and clean his door before others saw. Normally, Dean would shove her back, but she seemed, for once, remarkably sincere, so instead, he did what he was told and hurried back to his house.

Dean now stands outside his house in the shadows of the trees, anything but amused. Impressed, yes, but not amused in the slightest.

The scratches remain, of course, but now, several hours later, are covered in a heavy dose of crimson, the color stark even in the darkness of night; the blood is genuine. He runs his fingertips through the red, though he’s already done so many times, and the wood is damp, though none of the color stains his skin. It’s as though someone saw what he had done to the gouges and, in retaliation, splashed his door with a pail of animal blood; it’s certainly a lot of blood. He scrubs his face with his palms, sighing in exasperation, and removes his hat, chewing his inner cheek as he weighs his options.

He thanks Heaven that he inherited his father’s homestead, a modest house surrounded by few neighbors – a place he hated when he was a child - because it at least gives him time to clean the door before too many people see it.

It requires three hours of relentless scrubbing before the door is free of crimson and even then the unfinished area where the scratches mark the wood are stained a dark red that Dean cannot cleanse no matter how many times he tries. His back aches and there is sweat under his clothes by the time he’s finished; he throws the rag somewhere on the lawn and kicks the bucket of water over on the walkway, cursing loudly. Electricity courses down his spine, his anger finally bubbling to the surface as he plans to get even with a person he can’t yet identify. His fist is raised without realizing it and he barely controls himself before he punches the heavy wood, logic barely breaking through his rage to remind him that it will only serve to break his hand.

The lights are suddenly too bright and there are, though his neighbors are quite a while away, too many people around him, causing him to feel claustrophobic in his own skin even as he tugs roughly on the collar of his shirt. Locking the door, he leaves his mess and walks away. If Sam were here, he would chide Dean for being unnecessarily angry about everything but that thought only serves to increase Dean’s agitation. He kicks a tree on his way down the road, cursing himself for the resulting throb in his foot.

When he arrives at the cemetery, he kicks the gate open with his other foot and slams it shut with just as much intensity, finally allowing himself a moment to steady his breathing, his eyes looking over the dead patches of grass and assorted tombstones. The moon casts strange shadows over everything and there are no lights here; the darkness chills him and Dean exhales heavily. His mother is buried here, a random chunk of stone among many others, and when he was younger, Dean would frequent this place, sitting by her grave and listening to the trees sway in the wind as he drew incoherent doodles in the dirt. He realized, as he grew older, that he stopped visiting her so much as he began using the quiet area as a refuge from his talkative little brother and their harried father, giving him a much needed spot where he could slow down. It’s a habit he’s not broken - not that he’s ever particularly tried - and still, years later, he finds himself often sitting beside her on the ground, picking at the grass and allowing his ever-increasing rage to subside, even if it’s momentarily. It’s morbid, probably, that Dean finds his serenity in a graveyard, but he’s got no one to answer to anymore.

He walks slowly to her grave, enjoying the soft breeze from the nearby trees, and his breathing has slowed to normal, the boiling in his veins now practically nonexistent. He stands above the tombstone, reading her name as he’s done since he was younger. Dean doesn’t remember her – not really – but he still manages to miss her, and seeing her name there hurts each time he visits. His father lies beside her but he ignores the other grave, the memory of him only causing Dean more stress, which is what he’s here to alleviate. He stands in the stillness for several moments before a soft noise to his left breaks his thoughts; the sound is miniscule but Dean is so accustomed to complete silence here that he picks up on it instantly, his head turning slightly and his shoulders squaring as his guard comes up. The only people who visit a cemetery at night are individuals like him and that isn’t a happy thought.

Apprehensively, Dean walks through the patches of grass and conceals himself behind a tree, scanning the grounds until he sees someone standing up from a crouching position, his breath catching in his throat momentarily before he pushes himself further into the safety of the tree. His teeth break the skin of his tongue as he watches silently; the other visitor squares his own shoulders now, his eyes sliding to where Dean is hidden. Dean digs his fingernails into the bark of the trunk, ignoring the pain in his tips when the nail of his index finger splinters from the abuse, and he tries to keep his breathing as quiet as possible, focused wholly on the other man. As quickly as the other guarded himself, the other man’s shoulders relax and he lifts his unmistakable blue eyes to look briefly at the moon.

Silently, Dean watches. Blue Eyes returns his gaze to the tombstone before him, delicately tracing his long fingers over the stone with careful longing, sighing softly as he brushes the name with his fingertips. Squinting, Dean tries to distinguish the words but is too far away, so he instead allows his eyes to rake over the other man, recommitting everything to memory as though he’d forgotten; he could never forget. Dean scans the area quickly before smiling to himself: Blue Eyes is unguarded and alone - extremely easy prey to the likes of someone like Dean this late at night, in a place like this. Maybe good things do happen in life.

The other man’s sleeve rides up slightly as he runs his hand through his dark hair and Dean notices the daintiness of his wrists, which causes pictures to fly through his mind of pinning those weak wrists to the ground and perhaps, if Dean is feeling exceptionally playful, breaking them in his hands. Dean has always been the toy used and abused by boys stronger than him, bleeding from the inside and left bruised and broken, and he salivates at the thought of having his turn now with this beautiful specimen before him. Unlike his abusers, however, Dean plans to keep this one locked in his closet for future use; he never plans to let this one go. There’s heat pooling in his abdomen and hugs closer to the tree, watching Blue Eyes lift his head and breathe deeply, a scowl marking his pretty face momentarily before he finally turns fully toward Dean, though Dean ducks behind the trunk quickly enough to remain unseen.

Footsteps break the silence and Dean peeks around the tree, watching Blue Eyes walk away. He gives Blue Eyes a small head start before he slips from the shadows and follows with careful footing. He pauses by the grave Blue Eyes stood above and, now able to read the script, runs his own fingers along the name engraved in the stone: James Novak. He furrows his brows at the missing dates on the tombstone; they haven’t been scratched away – they seem to have never been carved at all. He chuckles softly to himself as his mystery man keeps getting more mysterious but when he lifts his gaze to continue after Blue Eyes, he’s nowhere to be seen. Panic floods Dean’s chest instantly as he searches the grounds, trying desperately to capture the sight of him but coming back empty-handed. He waits, thinking Blue Eyes hid behind something, but after several minutes, he realizes that he’s alone.

When he returns home and he’s forced to clean a new thick layer of blood from his door, Dean doesn’t make the connection.

+++

It’s only natural, Dean thinks, that since that night, three weeks ago, along with cleaning fresh blood from his home, he’s added the graveyard to his daily routine, always keeping within a close distance to James Novak’s grave in an attempt to capture his prey. Blue Eyes’ visits are sporadic at best, however, and in addition to him consistently slipping out of Dean’s fingers each time, he’s been to neither the town nor cemetery in five days, making Dean wonder if Blue Eyes has abandoned the area entirely. The thought leaves a sickening weight in his stomach as his love, as he’s taken to thinking of him, never disappears for this long and he curses himself for allowing him to get away so many times.

Dean is, however, a persistent man and he quietly enters the cemetery, running his hand through his dirty hair, his shoulders sagging with expectant defeat as he slowly makes his way toward the grave. As he anticipated, Blue Eyes isn’t there and he sighs heavily, glaring at the tombstone in front of him. He shuffles on his feet for several moments before he looks around, though, as he knew he would, he sees nothing in the distance but shadows and trees. He curses softly.

What Dean never expected, as he plays with the hem of his shirt idly while he contemplates his options, is the hand that quickly threads itself in his short hair, roughly pulling his head back and wrenching his neck painfully. Dean’s disoriented briefly before he moves to grab the knife from his pocket, aiming blindly to stab behind him, but a strong hand rips the weapon from his grasp and throws it somewhere to the left. There’s a body pressed against Dean’s back, keeping him still with a well-placed foot between his legs, and its form is like concrete, giving Dean a small jolt of fear that he refuses to let show. He’s swinging his arms now, attempting to punch since he cannot stab, but his wrists are captured and the hand in his hair tugs more harshly, causing Dean to wince at the pain in his scalp. Dean is one of the largest people he knows, having done manual labor since he was an adolescent, and having someone manhandle him isn’t something he properly knows how to deal with.

“Stop following me,” a voice hisses angrily in his ear, breath abnormally cold on his skin, before he’s propelled forward, his jaw connecting roughly with the soil. When he turns over on his back, his vision slightly dotty from the impact, Blue Eyes stands above him with his feet on either side of Dean’s hips, his azure orbs ablaze with anger. “Why have you been following me?”

“Ow,” Dean whimpers, moving to sit up on his elbows but Blue Eyes widens his stance above him.

“If you rise up, I will only strike you down again.” Dean makes eye contact with the other man now, silently astonished that such a small body was able to do so much damage with seemingly little effort, and moves in a sitting position, scooting back slightly to prevent his face from colliding with Blue Eyes’ crotch. He doesn’t like this.

“You surprised me,” Dean chuckles ominously through the pain in his jaw, “Face me and we’ll see who the true man is.” Blue Eyes remains unimpressed, his face passive even as Dean grins lewdly at him.

“Don’t test me.” Now that Dean is fully listening, he detects an accent he can’t place - only subtly present by a soft twinge at the end of the other man’s words. His concentration is broken when a dirty black shoe pushes hard on his chest, sending him falling back onto the ground again. Blue Eyes puts pressure on his ribcage once he’s down, causing the oxygen to spiral from Dean’s lungs and he coughs loudly, squirming under the pressure until the foot is removed.

“That’s dirty fighting,” Dean scoffs once he’s regained himself, slowly rolling over to stand, keeping his body rigid in case he’s pushed down once more. Blue Eyes allows him to stand on shaky legs and Dean grins at him again. “That doesn’t count.”

The other man says nothing, his eyes trained like lasers on Dean’s face and his body held tightly in a defensive stance as Dean catches his breath and rubs his aching scalp. They’re both still now, waiting for the other to move, and Dean uses this opportunity to study him; his eyes slide down the length of a lithe body hidden behind many layers of clothing, dark, unruly hair, and finally resting on pale, chapped lips. The fantasies emerge before he can keep them at bay and all of them involve those lips bloody and stretched around his cock, his fingers ripping at the other man’s hair and knowing first hand, now, how much that will hurt. He licks his own lips, lost momentarily, until Blue Eyes makes a deep sound in front of him, his mouth turned into a snarl as if he can sense what Dean is thinking and it takes a brief second until Dean registers the noise. That was a growl.

Dean blinks, taken by surprise and confused, until he realizes the other man has moved into an offensive stance now and he’s moving quickly, hoping to get the better of Blue Eyes, clenching his right hand into a fist and aiming it for the other man’s jaw. It’s caught in midair and Blue Eyes squeezes roughly, causing Dean to wince briefly, before craning Dean’s wrist backward, bending his arm painfully. Dean throws another punch with his other hand but it’s knocked off its path halfway there and a hand encloses his throat, sharp nails digging into the soft skin under his bruising jaw, causing another rush of air to abandon Dean’s body and leaving him gasping. His vision begins to blur, darkness creeping in from the edges, and he scrambling for purchase on anything he can reach, though it does nothing to deter the other man from his actions.

“I am not a man and I don’t fight like one,” he hisses in Dean’s ear before throwing him to the ground like he’s weightless, the remaining air in Dean’s lungs forced out of his chest as his back collides with the dirt. Ignoring the incessant pounding in his head, Dean opens his eyes and smirks again, despite the unease he feels in his stomach.

“I like it when you struggle,” Dean mutters, his voice broken from the abuse on his throat, and he’s having a difficult time keeping his eyes open after his collision; it doesn’t stop him from huffing out a mocking chuckle.

“I haven’t begun to struggle,” Blue Eyes murmurs darkly, his eyes staring at Dean’s intently. “This is your warning: stop following me.” The last bit of the conversation doesn’t register in Dean’s mind as he continues blinking rapidly until he finally gives up and lets sleep overcome him.

+++

After he woke up in the cemetery, Dean walked home with a heavy headache and a spotty memory of the night’s events. He scrubbed mindlessly at his front door and absently examined the bruises left on his body from his failed attempt at defending himself. Though he wasn’t tired, he laid in bed until sunrise, his body motionless as his fuzzy head reeled with bits and pieces of the confrontation with Blue Eyes. The only thing he could recall clearly without doubt was that Blue Eyes was strong and inexplicably fast - causing a kink in Dean’s delicious fantasies, causing a heavy weight of disappointment to settle in his chest. His beautiful, fragile little toy turned out to be more predator than prey and generally unimpressed with Dean to boot; he’d gotten caught stalking him somewhere along the way and he wasn’t sure how to recover from such a setback.

For quite some time, he entertained the idea of abandoning Blue Eyes entirely and possibly moving on to someone more likely to submit to Dean’s advances. But somewhere deep down inside Dean, an undeniable attraction had already formed. Dean wasn’t certain he would be comfortable settling for someone else, when a mere fantasy had driven his obsession into something almost tangible. Part of him, as he traced his fingers over the dark colors blooming under his golden skin, also feared for his own safety - though that part was miniscule because he’d already been warned. He was sure Blue Eyes wouldn’t take kindly if Dean disregarded it. He felt conflicted for days, avoiding any area where the other man could possibly chance a visit.

As time went on, and as his injuries healed and his bruises faded, Dean made his decision and chose a different approach to his situation; if this one failed, he promised himself, Dean would give up.

Locking his door behind him, Dean runs his hands through his hair and begins the short trek to the local cemetery, praying to whatever may hear him that Blue Eyes will be there tonight so he can begin his plan. He’d avoided the graveyard lately as part of his effort to avoid Blue Eyes, and swinging the gate open makes him feel uneasy, as though he’s an intruder on private property. Swallowing the increasingly large lump in his throat, he steels himself, fixing his face into a façade of apology and apprehension, before he makes his way to his mother’s grave. He spots Blue Eyes’ retreating back and hurries his steps, calling out to him when he reaches the tree he once hid behind. The other man turns around slowly, his eyes narrowed and his shoulders squared in agitation.

“Have you a death wish?” The words are sharp, even sharper than the warning he’d administered days ago, and Dean has the unmistakable impression that Blue Eyes wants to skin him alive. Dean chuckles at his question in spite of himself.

“Yeah, I kind of do, actually,” Dean murmurs, his eyes falling to the ground briefly, though he notices a spark of interest in the other’s eyes at those words. “That isn’t why I’m here, though. Look, uh,” Dean feigns a stutter in his words, “Let’s start over, okay? I’m Dean.” He takes a few steps forward, chewing on his bottom lip with an anxiety that’s only slightly false. “And, um, this is for you.” He pulls a rose from behind his back that he stole from his neighbor’s garden earlier in the evening, thrusting it toward the other man who only stares at it.

“Are you courting me?” The question seems mocking and Dean bites his tongue suddenly because he never once thought of the possibility that Blue Eyes doesn’t like men; that could make this much more difficult.

“Uh,” Dean clears his throat. “Yeah. That’s why I was… I didn’t… I didn’t mean to follow you – I just wanted to watch you. You’re certainly beautiful and I’d like a second chance, if you’ll be so kind as to allow me one.” Dean inwardly shares a smug smile with himself as he recites lines he’s learned from his brother over the years and admittedly, they do sound better than anything he could compose on his own.

“I see,” Blue Eyes mutters, looking up from the flower to Dean’s eyes now, though he doesn’t reach out to retrieve it from Dean’s hands. Dean furrows his brows in genuine disappointment.

“You don’t like roses?” He drops his arm to his side, twirling the stem between his fingers and watching flashes across the other man’s eyes, obviously in an internal debate.

“No, I do; they don’t exactly like me, however, and I’d hate for you to waste a gift like that.” Dean’s brows furrow in confusion this time but before he is able to question the statement, Blue Eyes smiles softly at him. “Castiel; it’s a pleasure.”

“Cas-Castiel? That’s uh, okay, Cas,” Dean replies and notices immediately that the other man doesn’t enjoy the nickname bestowed upon him, though he says nothing. “Nice to meet you, Cas.”

This is how it starts.

+++

A month after their official meeting, Dean realized, surprisingly, that Castiel is much more than a pretty face and breakable hips. Dean is increasingly astonished that Castiel’s not already been courted by some of the best ladies and gents in town. Castiel is smart, eloquent, and perpetually smells of spice and cinnamon, creating an intoxicating ether that even Dean has trouble straying from. He refuses gifts of flowers or herbal teas and sits quietly as Dean talks for hours, nodding and never interrupting, even when the stories are mostly about himself; Dean noticed Castiel’s patience immediately as he’s got quite the affinity for obedience. He’s quite possibly the most enchanting man Dean has ever had the pleasure of knowing, and it awakens a small fleck of melancholy when he thinks how broken Castiel will be after Dean is done with him.

That feeling is gone, however, as Dean recalls the other less desirable traits of his new beloved: his reluctance to be seen with Dean and how he is always, without a doubt, gone from him come morning light. Castiel disappears for days at a time without explanation. Though Dean finds the unabashed attention extremely flattering, he finds his aggravation growing steadily with each question Castiel throws at him. By now, Dean has answered every possible inquiry about his family, his upbringing, and his daily life, including mundane details such as the time he normally sleeps and if he’s afraid of the dark. 

The worst, as far as Dean is concerned, is Castiel’s stern refusal to lie on his back while in Dean’s presence, though Dean knows, with a body like that, he’s done it many times in the past for others. He assumed enough time had passed for Castiel to feel comfortable submitting to him, but each time Dean attempts, Castiel presses a cold index finger softly to Dean’s lips and quietly murmurs, “No.”

Dean can find no use for a pet who won’t obey its owner, and he is finding his rage difficult to control these days.

The rage leads to anxiety, which only deepens Dean’s depression. The marks on his arms are getting worse now; the bloody, swollen lines leading up to his elbow; the deeper ones where he thought he’d gained the courage to end it, but failed once again. He may have a new pet now, but that doesn’t keep the suicidal thoughts at bay and, as Castiel licks a stripe up Dean’s neck, he wants nothing more than to go back to when he was just simply an obsessed stalker. At least then, he thinks, he wouldn’t have inadvertently admitted his failures to another. It was simpler. 

Dean lies on his side, facing the window and away from the other man, counting the specks of dirt on the glass and idly ripping the flesh from around his nails, knowing without a care that he’s bleeding on the bed. He wishes tonight were one of the nights Castiel decides to disappear without a trace; he can’t bring himself to focus on anything other than his own angry internal monologue. Without warning, Castiel slides his hand gently from Dean’s exposed shoulder, down his arm, to rest heavily on the sore, fresh wounds that mar his flesh, running his thumb over the welts and cuts. Castiel places another chaste kiss to Dean’s jaw before scooting tighter to Dean’s back, shifting on his elbow to hover above him, a position Dean would dislike if he could make himself care.

The disappointment in his toy brought on this torrent of emotions, and now he can’t even force himself to keep said toy in line, including addressing the current invasion of his personal space.

“Do these calm you?” Castiel whispers softly against Dean’s ear, tracing the lines on Dean’s arm to emphasize his point. Dean bites his lip; they’ve never talked about this. Castiel continues to kiss Dean’s jaw, his other hand coming up to play in Dean’s short hair while he hooks his leg between Dean’s.

“Yeah, sometimes,” Dean mutters, swallowing the lump in his throat. He stares resolutely at the window, ignoring the gentle touches from his partner. Castiel hums into Dean’s ear and pulls softly on his hair, causing Dean to turn his head to face him. Dean groans as Castiel presses his lips to Dean’s, trailing his tongue along his bottom lip.

Castiel tells him to close his eyes, which Dean unsubtly ignores, before he quietly gets up from the bed and walks into the bathroom. Dean furrows his brows in confusion, especially as Castiel returns seemingly empty-handed. He settles back onto the bed and Dean sighs, rolling onto his back and scrubs his hands over his face, biting his lip briefly before speaking.

“Look, Cas, I’m not really –“ Dean begins but is cut off by a hand closing around his wrist gently, forcing him to drop his hands from his eyes as Castiel presses another kiss to Dean’s temple. Dean feels the anger bubble in his chest, but his body remains without energy so he glares at the other man instead, hoping the intensity of the gaze conveys his feelings clearly.

Silently, Castiel reaches into his pocket and retrieves a small blade, which he must have gotten from the bathroom counter. Castiel holds it in front of Dean’s face and twirls it so it catches the soft light of the room. Dean stares at it momentarily before throwing a questioning glance to Castiel, whose face remains impassive. Castiel gestures the razor toward him.

“We all have our ways of self-medicating, don’t we? You look like you need another dose of yours,” Castiel muses, raising his eyebrows expectantly. Dean’s hand takes the blade from him without Castiel’s explicit consent. Another kiss is administered to Dean’s temple and Castiel buries his face in Dean’s hair, his hand coming up to scratch softly at the wounds on Dean’s arm.

After several moments of Dean silently staring at the blade, Castiel takes his wrist and pushes his hand toward his other arm until the blade rests against his broken flesh Castiel places another kiss to Dean’s temple. An image flashes in Dean’s mind, so quickly he almost misses it: taking the blade and holding it to Castiel’s throat, cutting the flesh just enough to bleed and telling the blue-eyed man to shut up, lie down, and stop trying to help him. The blade, with help of Castiel, is pressed harder against the old lines and Dean can’t focus on anything but the sensation against his already bruised forearm; Castiel is forgotten now. That doesn’t stop the other man, however, from pressing down and slowly dragging the sharp edge across the scabbed cuts. Dean hisses as a small line of crimson to wells underneath the blade. The red pools momentarily before it slides down his skin, a lone droplet splashing onto the sheets.

Dean shakes off Castiel’s hand and sits up before dragging the blade across the fresh cut again, pressing the blade in deeper than Castiel had previously, once, twice, three times until the flow is stable, dripping steadily off his arm and staining the bed. Castiel kisses Dean’s cheek as Dean moves the blade down his arm, creating deeper cuts the further he goes and smearing the blood in his haste. Castiel runs his index finger through one of the red rails, drawing an incoherent pattern on Dean’s skin. After Dean is satisfied with the destruction, he puts his head in his hand and breathes deeply, closing his eyes to avoid watching the fresh flow of red, knowing he’s making a mess. The endorphins flood his veins immediately, turning his indifference into fatigue, his eyelids heavy and his eyes burning as he sways slightly in his sitting position.

He’s broken from his stupor when Castiel takes his hand from where it rests on his knee. Dean reluctantly opens his bleary eyes as another kiss is pressed to Dean’s shoulder. Starting from the crook of Dean’s elbow, Castiel licks a long stripe up Dean’s arm with a flattened tongue, collecting the red before moving back slightly to swallow. Dean’s eyes are wide now, a gentle heat growing in his abdomen despite his confusion, and he stares at Castiel as he attaches his lips to Dean’s wrist, creating suction and dragging more blood from the open wounds. It hurts, as though his cuts are being softly prodded with needles, but watching Castiel’s throat muscles constrict as he ingests more blood keeps Dean from pulling away; slowly, Castiel raises his eyes to Dean’s, the blue brighter now, and Dean is lost.

Within moments, Dean feels sluggish once more, his body heavy and his pants uncomfortably tight; the conflicting feelings making him squirm as he stares at Castiel. If he didn’t know better and hadn’t been watching the other man continuously this entire time, Dean would swear Castiel drugged him. The needle-like feeling intensifies, making Dean bite his lip at the strange sensation, and Castiel’s eyes briefly flutter in a way that causes Dean to sigh heavily, revisiting his older fantasies of the other man. Abruptly, the pain subsides and Castiel removes himself from Dean’s wrist, tonguing at the wounds a few more times before backing away completely and giving Dean a gentle shove; with Dean’s sudden fatigue, he falls easily. Castiel moves now, placing himself between Dean’s legs and hovering above him with his wrist still in hand and Dean opens his mouth to protest but Castiel ignores him, dripping saliva over the gashes. Once again, Dean reigns in his confusion in favor of another wave of arousal, though he isn’t sure where it’s coming from.

Letting go of Dean’s wrist, Castiel leans over him, placing his hands carefully on each side of the other man’s body, and kisses him gently, biting his bottom lip softly and tugging. The only things Dean can focus on are the smell of cinnamon and the intangible weights inside his flesh, keeping his body in place, though his eyes remain open, watching Castiel quietly. When Castiel dips his tongue into Dean’s mouth, slowing encircling it around his, the other man’s eyes flutter briefly and his mouth feels numb, as though it’s recovering from a particularly bad burn. The spicy taste that he’s come to associate with his dark-haired partner has been replaced by the tangy flavor of blood and though that thought doesn’t bother Dean as much as it probably should, he does find his stomach kicking slightly knowing that it’s his own; he doesn’t want to taste himself. Castiel offers a harsh bite to Dean’s tongue that he only feels as a small tug on the muscle, his mouth too disoriented to register the pain, and runs his chilled palm down Dean’s flanks.

When Castiel reaches the waistband of his underwear, Dean jerks his head to the side as best as possible, mumbling something incoherent, but is answered with a gentle squeeze on his battered wrist, causing him to fall back into the mattress limply. Castiel slowly starts inching his underwear down while placing little nips to his jawline, his hair soft on Dean’s prickling flesh, and Dean is momentarily lost in the scent of the other man, sending him miles away to times of Halloween and warm drinks in the moonlight. When his underwear is safely pulled down his hips, Castiel backs away to throw them on the floor, rising from the bed and deftly turning off the lamp, pulling Dean from his revere at the sudden darkness. Castiel returns and cold fingers trail down the shaft of Dean’s reddened cock, causing a chill in his spine but he is without the energy to properly shiver in response, settling for flexing his fingers in the sheets instead.

The panic starts quickly when Castiel parts Dean’s legs below him, though much gentler than Dean is used to, and Dean is lost in his own mind again - images of trees and blood on the soil, heavy hands on the back of his neck to hold him down, and the guttural noises of the blonde boy he so adored using him roughly from behind. Despite the numbing in his limbs, he feels the phantom touches of nails digging into his hips to force his legs open and the stinging in his cheek after being backhanded for whimpering at the pain in his insides. Castiel brings him back to the present quickly, digging his index finger into one of the deeper cuts on Dean’s wrists, ripping it open and smearing the blood across the skin, forcing his fingernail into his arm to ensure Dean feels it above the numbness. Ripping new flesh and deepening the cut, Castiel causes enough destruction to force Dean’s eyes open in the darkness, blinking rapidly to adjust to his new surroundings, disoriented at first because Castiel isn’t his abuser and he isn’t face down in the dirt. The room is spinning now from a mixture of blood loss and sedation, and Dean is having a difficult time keeping his eyes open, wanting to sleep despite his obvious, straining arousal.

Dean wonders idly how fuzzy his head truly is because in the time it takes him to blink, Castiel is atop him again, his lips ghosting over the shell of Dean’s ear and his hand slowly pumping his hardened cock; at least, Dean swears he only blinked once. He wishes he could force his head to work well enough to piece together why he feels this way since he doesn’t recall taking or drinking anything, and he knows he isn’t bleeding enough to warrant this type of reaction. He knows how much blood he can lose before passing out and he hasn’t even begun to hit his limit. There’s a small huff of cold breath on the side of his face and Dean loses his train of thought immediately, trying to turn his head but finding the effort too difficult and choosing to slide his eyes to the side instead.

“Relax. Everything’s okay,” Castiel whispers, his hand now moving from Dean’s dick to between his cheeks, his index finger prodding the opening and causing Dean to squirm uncomfortably, swallowing hard in this throat though his mouth is too dry to accomplish much. “I love you, Dean.” Dean’s brows furrow slightly and he stares at the ceiling, desperately trying to comprehend the words and decipher their meaning because he knows, somewhere underneath the increasing fog, they’re important; he knows he should reply, but he doesn’t understand.

When Castiel backs away, sitting on his haunches and working his index finger inside Dean dryly, his eyes are darkened and he stares at Dean intently – seemingly angrily – until he breaks the gaze and looks around the room with narrowed eyes. His lips part as if to say something but upon seeing Dean’s dazed eyes and slack jaw, he thinks better of this and sighs, removing his finger and rising from the bed. Dean watches him walk to the bathroom and, again, Dean swears he only blinks once before Castiel is back on the bed, settled between Dean’s legs with a jar of lotion in his hand; he grimaces when he opens it, obviously disliking the smell. Normally, Dean would have a clipped response to this, reminding Castiel that he isn’t royalty, but he’s too focused on keeping his lungs inflated, finding difficulty in remembering to breathe.

Castiel submerses his fingers in the jelly-like substance crudely and throws the jar across the bed, returning his finger to Dean’s entrance and inserting it swiftly, causing Dean to squirm again. He works quickly, as Castiel is wont to do, and though Dean whimpers when there are three fingers moving deftly inside him, wishing he could clench the sheets properly, Castiel ignores the sounds and presses further, pushing roughly on Dean’s prostate. This draws a small sigh from him, his eyes drifting closed briefly as his stomach jumps pleasantly with each brush of Castiel’s fingers, and the sensation is intensified by the chill of the other man’s skin on Dean’s heated insides. Castiel uses the precome collecting on the tip of Dean’s dick to offer shallow strokes in time with the thrusting of his fingers. The combination causes Dean to close his eyes fully now, lost in a fuzzy world of cinnamon and pleasure.

Castiel removes himself entirely from Dean, making Dean’s eyes open in discontent, and quickly undoes his slacks, freeing his cock and slicking it with lotion, watching from his periphery as Dean’s body betrays him. There’s a small spark of worry in Dean’s eyes even as his own cock twitches as Castiel moves in the dark, sliding forward on the bed and placing the tip at Dean’s entrance, casting another glance in Dean’s direction. Castiel places his index finger over his lips to hush Dean’s protests, his smile warm but his eyes cold, and slowly guides his cock inside, watching Dean’s reactions carefully through his lashes. Dean automatically clamps down on the intrusion, biting his lip harshly, and whimpers low in his throat, trying to make his arm move to grab Castiel’s tie but falling several inches too short, arm landing limply on the bed again. Rubbing circles on Dean’s hip bones, Castiel waits, motionless, as he allows Dean to fully adjust.

He draws out slowly and, just as leisurely, pushes back in, his eyes never leaving Dean’s face, though he feels the other man’s legs relax around him and the hand on Dean’s hip changes from soothing to steadying, giving Dean a feeling of safety. When he’s convinced Dean is fine, Castiel drops himself onto his left elbow, hovering just above Dean and burying his face into the other man’s neck. Instinctually, Dean leans into the weight of him, using Castiel as an anchor to keep himself from floating too far in his head, as Castiel builds a better rhythm, his thrusts faster now. As if somehow knowing Dean is about to panic at the harsh slide of Castiel’s sharp hipbones atop his, Castiel runs his right hand down Dean’s arm to rest heavily on his wrist, squeezing every so often and calming him.

Castiel emits a breathy grunt by Dean’s ear and Dean mewls softly in response, his body on fire despite the nagging in the back of his mind telling him something is wrong, and Castiel takes the sound as encouragement, squeezing Dean’s bloody wrist once more and quickening his thrusts. The other man’s body is rigid, as though he’s holding back, and the longer they continue, the harsher Castiel’s grip becomes on Dean’s arm, though Dean can no longer feel it in light of his burning prostate and throbbing cock smearing precome on the front of Castiel’s white shirt. This is different than Dean remembers it feeling, but with his current mental state, he isn’t even quite sure what his name is or who this beautiful dark-haired man above him is and he can’t remember if it’s night or day, though he’s shrouded in darkness.

Castiel removes his hand from Dean’s wrist to circle his cock, pumping it quickly, in time with his hurried thrusts, and when his grip becomes harsher, Dean now moans for the first time, trying to make his limbs work well enough to touch the other man in encouragement but failing. Dean’s arousal peaks suddenly and he feels his orgasm threatening to break but his sluggish body is preventing him from toppling over the edge, keeping his muscles tight and his eyes shut tightly in frustration. Castiel bites down on the soft skin of Dean’s neck gently, his teeth grinding the skin with each thrust, and he tightens his hold on the other man, his strokes harsh, almost painful now. Castiel adjusts his angle and Dean feels sharp spikes of pleasure through his spine, settling in his stomach, and he groans softly, trying to mentally force his body over the edge.

It’s a game they play for some time, Castiel keeping himself at bay as Dean tries to push himself in the opposite direction, before Castiel’s thrusts begin to falter and, letting go of Dean’s flesh, he moans loudly, his voice dark and broken. Dean doesn’t understand what’s happening other than he isn’t getting what he wants and he keeps his eyes closed, concentrating now, as Castiel rolls further to the side, dropping onto his shoulder and, in a bout of flexibility, takes hold of Dean’s other wrist. He wraps his fingers over the healing wounds there, welted and scabbed as Dean favors cutting his other arm, and uses his nails to rip open the gashes, scratching mercilessly until Dean feels warm liquid running down his hand to pool on the sheets. Though he isn’t sure if it’s the pain or endorphins, Dean groans again, Castiel’s nails feeling like a cat’s claws on his bruised flesh, the immediate sensations of safety and pleasure coursing through him. Castiel squeezes the newly wounded wrist, causing the area to sting painfully, and Dean finally falls, moaning at the ceiling and covering them both in hot spurts of wetness, his body completely limp now.

Castiel offers a few more soft strokes before he removes his soiled hand, setting it on Dean’s hip instead, his nails digging into the flesh like anchors, and his thrusts become even more brutal, Dean’s body jerking with each jab at his spent prostate. Dean is having trouble keeping himself awake, despite the harsh treatment his body is suffering, but Castiel continues, breathy sighs hitting Dean’s ears constantly now. His thrusts begin to falter again and Castiel suddenly jerks his head to the side, burying his face into the pillow, growling loudly into the fabric. His nails finally break the skin of Dean’s hip, though Dean barely feels it. Another loud growl and Dean vaguely feels heat filling him before slowly dripping from between his legs, causing him to squirm in discomfort as Castiel dislodges himself from the pillow and sits back. After Castiel pulls out, they stare at one another silently and Dean wishes he knew why Castiel looks so angry with him, but the thought is cut short by Castiel looking out the window suddenly.

Quickly, Castiel gathers himself and makes to get off the bed, but Dean, yet unable to form coherent words, makes a noise of protest, causing Castiel to stop midstep and turn back. The feeling of safety is leaving Dean now as he lies on the bed motionless, heavy, and tired, but Castiel only regards him briefly before checking the window again. A hand is tangled in Dean’s hair softly.

“I have to go,” Castiel whispers but Dean minutely shakes his head, trying to make his tongue cooperate but failing. “I have to, Dean. I love you, but I must go.” His words trip slightly on the endearment but Dean ignores it as Castiel kisses his forehead softly, pulling the blankets over him and quickly vacating the room without another look back.

Dean could possibly feel disappointment but he falls asleep too quickly.

+++

Upon awakening the next morning, the first thing Dean did was empty the contents of his stomach in the bathroom. The sore ache between his legs brought with it vague recollections of the previous night’s events like venom in his veins. There was blood on the bed from both of his wrists - one of which appeared to have been clawed by a wild animal - and a small pink mark on his neck that carried the indentations of teeth. Still not entirely lucid, Dean punched the plaster in the bathroom three times, bruising his knuckles but without the energy or coordination to properly break them. He found the jar of lotion and threw it away. Sitting under hot water until it ran icy cold, Dean used a ball of metal shavings to clean the entire area between his legs where he once felt sticky, the water running red after he was done, though he still felt incredibly unclean.

His days ran together after that, the pain in his arms and legs a constant reminder of what happened, and he spent every minute of free time hidden away in his home, typically sitting in the corner of the room, numb and jaded. Castiel never returned and Dean, for the most part, was glad because he was much too shaken and disturbed to deal with him in the aftermath, though he wanted answers. He assumed Castiel would make an appearance, but when five days went by without a word from the other man, he accepted that Castiel didn’t want to deal with Dean as much as Dean didn’t want to deal with him. Dean weighed his options. The blade Castiel persuaded Dean to use sat on the bathroom counter, mocking him, and each day, Dean looked at it, his fingers itching at his sides to pick it up and end it all; Dean was tired of misery. One morning, Dean was, in fact, so tired that he even placed the blade upon his wrist, but before he could drag the sharp edge up his forearm, he stopped himself, his eyes falling on the mark on his neck that still hadn’t faded entirely. He put the razor down and decided that if Castiel wouldn’t come to him, he would instead find Castiel.

It’s been two weeks now since Dean last saw the other man and now he stands in the shadows, hidden between two brick buildings on the outer edge of the town square, eyes scanning his surroundings with clear focus, just as they’ve done for the last four days. The anger bubbling in his veins is intensified by the sun’s heat, and he can feel the phantom pain in his insides because of Castiel. Dean remains stationary in his place, waiting, just as he’s used to doing.

Today he sees him, walking along the edge on the other side, hidden beneath heavy layers despite the dissipating heat of the lowering sun. Dean immediately begins to follow, his eyes never leaving Castiel’s back in case he decides to vanish again. Even now, Dean isn’t exactly sure what he plans to do but he’s made the choice that if he’s going to take his own life, he’s taking Castiel down with him; it’s justice, he reasons. He consciously forces himself from giving away his position, from not attacking the other man as soon as they leave the crowded town and begin the trek to wherever Castiel goes when he leaves. Dean slyly scopes the area, looking for hiding spots and places to jump from, hoping to surprise Castiel enough to overpower him, his mind not letting him forget the last time he tried to hurt the other man and failed. His efforts are in vain.

Once they are in seclusion, Castiel whips around, his azure eyes sparkling with rage, stopping Dean in his tracks, and hissing, “What have I told you about following me?” Dean steels himself and continues his steps, though apprehensively, his hands clenched into tight fists at his side until he’s only feet from the other man.

“What did you do to me?” Dean asks angrily and though he expects Castiel to look surprised or trapped, he’s surprised to see Castiel remain unmoved, his face passive and his eyes still angry as he stays an unyielding object in Dean’s warpath.

“I did nothing to you.” Castiel’s tone is harsh, his words sharp as though he’s doing the accusing and Dean bites his inner cheek to keep from screaming in frustration. He wants to attack, but barely reels himself in.

“I don’t spread my legs, Cas, and yet, somehow, I did for you, so tell me what you did.” Dean takes a different approach that hopes makes him sound less upset than he really is, though, just as before, Castiel remains still. Dean’s breathing is labored and his nails are digging deeply into his palms, his right foot tapping the ground anxiously. Now, Castiel smiles.

“I’m just that good, my love,” Castiel whispers, his shining with mirth and something inside Dean breaks, like a tether pulled too tightly, causing him to stalk up to the other man and grab his collar roughly.

“I am going to break you and you are going to regret spilling your filth between my legs when there is blood running from yours,” Dean mutters between clenched teeth, his hand tightening in Castiel’s collar. Castiel’s smile widens.

“Will you, boy?” Castiel tilts his head to the side, a quirk exclusive to him, and Dean waits a beat before he move quickly, yanking on Castiel’s shirt as his hand goes for the other man’s throat. His fingers only graze the skin of Castiel’s neck before there is a hard shove on his chest and he’s sent flying backward several feet, hitting the ground with a loud thud and skidding back another foot or so, finally stopping and rolling over to try and regain his breath. “I know your thoughts,” Castiel sing-songs from where he stands, not having moved, and Dean glares at him angrily through his pain. “All those dark things you keep to yourself and your overwhelming desperation to end your pathetic life because no one loves you. I know what you want to do to me – what you’ve always wanted to do to me – with your brawn and anger.” Castiel begins walking toward Dean. “Now you’ve come to accuse me of doing those things to you, though we both know your fantasies are far worse. No, see, Dean, I’m not like you: I’m not a rapist.” Castiel stands above Dean as he did in the cemetery long ago, his feet on either side of Dean’s hips and his eyes angry as he stares down at him. “I’m just a murderer.”

The breath Dean worked so hard to retain in his lungs leaves him in a rush when he sees a pair of spit-slick fangs glinting in the last rays of twilight, a low, ominous growl rumbling from low in Castiel’s chest and he feels paralyzed, his entire body going numb. They stare at each other silently for several moments before a woman’s voice carries from somewhere to their left, breaking Dean’s stupor and causing Castiel whip his head in the direction of the sound, breathing the air in deeply and growling in what Dean assumes is frustration. Dean keeps his eyes on the other man, his jaw slack with surprise and his chest heaving with fear, too afraid to move but desperately wanting to flee. Castiel looks back at him, his blue eyes shining now, and he snarls softly before he’s gone in a whirl color and kicked-up dirt, leaving Dean lying on the ground, shaken and feeling vulnerable.

Dean hurries home, his stomach fluttering with anxiety, and finds his door painted in red for the first time in weeks; it’s red for the first time since meeting Castiel. Quickly, he breaks the branch off a nearby tree and runs back to his door, unlocking it and slamming it behind him, his eyes scanning his living room wildly for any sign of an intrusion but finding none. He looks at the branch in his hand and grimaces, hoping the scary stories his father used to read to him are true and that you can stake a vampire with anything made of wood.

Dean opts to stay awake tonight, sitting against his bed’s headboard with his eyes glued to the window, his pitiful tree branch in hand and using it to absently scratch at the healing cuts on his left wrist, enjoying the way it calms his stomach slightly. It’s late now and the moon is shining brightly outside, casting strange shadows through his dimly lit bedroom.

A noise reaches Dean’s ears, apparently coming from downstairs. He slides his eyes to the closed bedroom door, gripping the branch in his hand and controlling his troubled breathing, hoping his exhaustion is playing tricks on him, though there’s a weight in the pit of his stomach telling him otherwise. His lungs feel deflated and the room is suddenly too warm as he recalls their night together - the way Castiel ran his tongue along Dean’s slashed wrist, an act Dean found strangely arousing at the time but now only makes him feel ill. His thoughts are broken by the door being opened roughly, the doorknob colliding loudly with the wall, and Castiel standing in the frame, his tie askew and his unruly hair messier than usual.

“Do we need to talk, Dean?” Castiel asks, walking into the room but stopping just short of the bed when Dean raises the tree branch in the air, slowly rising from the mattress to stand opposite of the other man. Castiel tilts his head curiously. “Do you plan to stake me?” Dean nods, his mouth dry. “Oh, Dean, no. You aren’t nearly fast enough for that.”

“What do you want, Cas?” Dean keeps the branch in front of him, its presence making him feel a little safer than he knows he actually is. His nerves are on fire and he’s got Castiel’s heart at the forefront of his mind though his eyes stay on the vampire’s. Castiel is still for a moment, seemingly thinking, before he’s suddenly behind Dean, the smell of cinnamon heavy in the air from his quick movement and Dean whips around to face him, holding out the branch. Castiel sighs sadly and forcibly rips the branch away from him, throwing it across the room where he means it to stay, before trailing a cold finger down Dean’s cheek, following Dean when he jerks back.

“Dean, I know you,” Castiel whispers softly, licking his bottom lip, “and I know you want to die.”

“Not by the likes of you,” Dean grits out, narrowing his eyes and backing up until the backs of his legs hit the bed behind him, his hands clenched into fists as though they’ll protect him. Castiel smiles and looks to the floor briefly, murmuring a quiet, “Oh.”

“Will you do it, then? After you, of course, kill me, will you kill yourself?” Castiel raises his eyes, an unreadable expression on his face and Dean chuckles loudly, which causes Castiel to blink in confusion.

“Cas, that was the plan all along. That’s why I followed you after you defiled me – destroy you, then destroy me,” Dean mutters bitterly. “I’m not going out without taking you with me.” Castiel tilts his head again, his brows furrowed and his eyes intense as though he’s trying to decipher a difficult puzzle, but Dean remembers Castiel’s admission in the woods: Castiel can read his mind, or at least his current thoughts, and he drops his eyes.

“Life is beautiful, though, isn’t it?” Castiel asks and Dean looks at him, his face in scowl.

“No.” Dean feels a choked sob in his throat that he quickly swallows down, his mind suddenly racing to thoughts of his blade and bloody wrists, lying on the bathroom floor, and finally being at peace for the first time in his life. Castiel begins to pace.

“I warned you, Dean,” Castiel murmurs, drastically changing the subject and causing Dean to furrow his brows in confusion. “I told you to leave me alone, but you didn’t and you thought your little act of trying to court me with kind gestures would make me forget what you really are. Did you think a rose that wasn’t your own and a charming smile would subdue my anger? Imagine: a vampire, a powerful one, being stalked by someone who only seeks to hurt and use it. Imagine the rage that vampire must feel. Head games, manipulation, lies… Dean, I warned you and now it’s my turn.”

“No,” Dean chokes out, his throat constricting, “You got yours when you drugged me with your vampire magic and took advantage of me against my will.” Castiel only shakes his head.

“I was kind to you that night; tonight, I will not be so merciful,” Castiel sighs, his eyes sparkling with amusement though his face remains indifferent. Dean’s feet are moving before he realizes it and he rounds the bed, aiming to retrieve the branch from by the door but he’s pulled back with a strong hand in his hair, Castiel pinning him like he did in the graveyard. “You shouldn’t have invited me in,” Castiel whispers against the shell of Dean’s ear seconds before he’s bitten.

Dean recognizes the feeling immediately, recalling the needle-like pain in his wrist the night Castiel took him, but with his fangs fully inserted, Dean can consciously sense the tug of his blood being drained from his artery. Within moments, he feels the familiar weight in his limbs, his body sluggish and his eyelids drooping, his form supported only by Castiel’s arm wrapped tightly around his waist. He parts his lips to speak but it requires several attempts, the teeth lodged in his neck making it difficult to get his throat to emit sound.

“P-poison,” Dean croaks out, his voice scratchy and slurred and he feels his legs give way below him, causing Castiel to tighten his grip. The vampire huffs a soft chuckle against Dean’s skin, pulling back slightly.

“I’m a poisoned devil… and now you will be, too,” Castiel whispers and Dean tries to say something, anything in response, desperately trying to force his vocal cords into submission, but his vision blackens and he passes out as Castiel reinserts his fangs, continuing to drink.

+++

The moon is the first thing Dean sees when he awakens, blinking his eyes rapidly to regain his focus, and he notices trees, darkness, and a pain in his back, causing him to roll over onto his shoulder, hissing in discomfort. His body feels as though it’s been carved from cement and his stomach aches, coiling inward angrily, as he tries to recall why he’s lying in the middle of the woods in the dead of night, but coming up blank. Dean coughs harshly as he sits up, his throat sore and dry, and when he tries to roll his shoulders to relieve the ache in his muscles, he pulls a spike of pain on his neck. He raises his fingers to the spot but stops when the sleeve of his shirt falls down his arm, revealing golden, unblemished skin rather than crusted cuts and he stares at his flesh silently, his jaw slack and his brows furrowed in confusion. When he inspects his other wrist, he finds similar results, grimacing as his stomach recoils again, and touches his shaky fingers to the side of his neck, feeling a swollen area with two small healing wounds; he pokes it and confirms that it’s bruised.

Standing, he looks at his surroundings with his hand still placed over his neck but doesn’t recognize the area. Though his eyesight is suddenly better than it’s ever been, he doesn’t detect any sign of civilization around him. He smells soil and water. His head pounds behind his eyes and he swallows hard in his dry throat, searching again for anything familiar but he sees only trees and moonlight.

“Hello, Dean,” a deep voice calls from the left of him and Dean whips around to see Castiel leaning against a tree with his hands deep in the pockets of his coat, a small smile on his face. Dean scowls.

“Where am I? What did you do?” Dean squares his shoulders and Castiel removes himself from the tree, slowly walking toward him and pulling his hands from his pockets. Castiel looks around the trees, breathing in deeply.

“You wanted to die, so I made you live forever.” Castiel smiles softly, tilting his head as if appraising his handiwork. Dean furrows his brows, taking a step backward, as Castiel lifts his own wrist to his mouth, biting into it, allowing crimson to drip off his pale flesh and land forgotten on the soil. Dean’s stomach jumps in interest and he watches the liquid fall from Castiel’s arm, his mouth salivating and his fangs unsheathing from his gums of their own accord.

“Cas,” Dean whispers, though he isn’t sure why, as he watches Castiel’s wrist heal before his eyes, the blood ceasing to drip, and he stares at his maker with wide eyes.

“You should have heeded my warning. In the future, Dean, you would do well to remember to keep your distance when I advise you to,” Castiel mutters, fixing his sleeve as Dean places his hand on his aching stomach, the pain nearly enough to make him double over. Castiel smiles at his distress and offers him a courteous bow, his blue eyes shining brightly in the dark. “Should we meet again, Mr. Winchester.” He watches Dean swallow hard in his throat and whispers, “Have fun.”

Like that, Castiel is gone, a cinnamon-scented fragment in Dean’s memory as he stands in the middle of an unknown forest, his stomach cramping and his head pounding, and he hears nothing but the morning birds chirping from somewhere above him. It’s almost dawn, Dean realizes, and he knows what happens if vampires don’t hide during daylight, which only causes his anxiety to worsen; he uses his nail to scratch a deep line into his wrist in hopes of curbing his worry, but it heals nearly immediately.

It’s been years since Dean has cried but he’s thankful, at least, that this time, in the seclusion in which Castiel abandoned him, no one can hear him.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Dean/Castiel dark!fic challenge on LiveJournal; beta'd by Sarah.


End file.
